


My dear, my dear, it's not so dreadful here

by felixruveris



Series: Serpents and Pomegranates [1]
Category: Greek Mythology, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixruveris/pseuds/felixruveris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say I took you, I stole you, they tremble whispering my name. Let them taste the dread - our cravings, they cannot fathom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My dear, my dear, it's not so dreadful here

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first English work in a long time, so I beg pardon for typos and mistakes. It's based on my personal view of Persephone as something else (more) than the helpless maid she is depicted as in the popular version of the myth (Mynthe's story proves that she was definitely a tough cookie, and for Hades to be so faithful to her, she must have been an handful, imo.) One is not Zeus' daughter for nothing, isn't she?

 

 

_Be to her, Persephone,_

_All the things I might not be;_

_Take her head upon your knee._

_She that was so proud and wild,_

_Flippant, arrogant and free,_

_S_ _he that had no need of me,_

_Is a little lonely child_

_Los_ t _in Hell_ , _—Persephone,_

_Take her head upon your knee;_

_Say to her, "My dear, my dear_

_It is not so dreadful here."_

 

It is not. The air is chilly but her skin stays smooth, smooth and white, a thin layer of flesh over her delicate bones. He runs a finger on the side of her neck, only then leaving a path of goosebumps. There is no trace of fear in her eyes -not blue nor black: a shade in between- their depth far beneath the Tartarus'. No fear now, no fear then, her lips dripping red juice -a hint of it still painting them dark.

_What do they know about us? They say I took you, I stole you, they tremble whispering my name. Let them taste the dread - our craves, they cannot fathom._

 

* * *

 

 

They know nothing. Perhaps afraid she would refuse him her hand out of spite for the one place on Earth her brother-cousins' cannot reach, he takes his time before telling her about his realm. No sun, nor moon; still, there is light, sourceless and near-solid. She sometimes raises a finger, as if to touch it, meeting cool air instead.

The perpetual chill does not bother her as much as she had feared: it reminds her of early spring days (her season), of the tranquil humidity after the messy storm, the cold taste in her filling lungs.

Besides, there is warmth: Hades' long, focused gazes as if to guess the inner workings of her mind; his fingertips on the back of her neck (he says its paler color becomes her, in a rare tryst at compliments); his ragged breath in her ear at night, his body moving on hers until there is but one flesh, as if it is her mind he wants to possess.

Then, she sits next to him in those sun-less, timeless morning afters (she supposes she can call them that), still as she would have never thought her body could bear, and something akin spreads inside her chest. She watches shapeless supplicant kneel before their Queen (you), and whether beneath the tightening of compassion or the acrid taste of disgust (she cannot fully detach herself from earthly things), she does not scold herself too hard for it -not even when she sees it for what it is.

_(She later comes to admit she quite enjoys it )._

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Did you take her to this bed?"_ Perhaps because they rarely feel the need of any other's company but their own, or seek it; perhaps because she is too wrapped in the aftermath of the kidnapping to notice or care; might be both.

He is nibbling at her ear with his teeth -he has learnt she relishes the sensation- and she catches him with his guard lowered. He raises from her sweet scented neck (she still holds a faint smell of flowers and sunlight) and looks at her, just looks, the slightest crisp on his forehead.

She stares straight back, eyes unreadable, still as he only sees her while she sits next to him, giving audience. There is an entirely new vibe coming from her slight body -it puzzles him, it excites him. He's not one for the unexpected (there was little defying the natural course of human life; he rarely chances upon exceptions and there is stability in that), and yet the feeling stirs something somewhere between heart and stomach. He -somewhat detachedly- recognizes a sort of giddiness, a sort of cruel curiosity.

 _"Yes"_ , he breaths - out of pure wish of seeing how jealousy suits her pale frame. The crack behind his back it is loud and out of place in the quite room. She does not lift her chin, though he is a head taller than her, but her eyes never leave his while the bed is split in two. He experiences a queer sense of familiarity with the bright, fiery temper he finds there as reads her all over.

She leaves the room, head high, back straight. The next day, she smiles and dances, she sits next to him and considerately chews on pomegranate seeds while she listens intently to yet another supplicant.

She is Kore all over again, brighter at that that she has ever been since her descent to Hell. He watches, amused -it does not come to hurt him until later in the day, when night comes. She disappears in a cloud of handmaidens - and so the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. It takes a month before she lets him brush the back of her hand with his without stiffly, discreetly pulling away.

 

* * *

 

 

She has never been one to deny herself her wishes: she picks the most trusted members of her trails and she goes to have a look at the competition. She spots her instantly -she is instantly irritated that she does. She sits on the dark green grass, only half dressed, her skin so pale she can see through it, her hair a loose plait on her back.

She toys with a strand and Persephone sees the care and self-love she puts in the single gesture. Her own hair is fair as well, pale and white for the sun, a lifetime back. Mynthe's mane is as golden as her mother's fields -Persephone thinks of her ample bosom, the soft skin in the crook of her neck, then her image blurs and the features of her face soften, her lips become plumper, her figure more youthful.

She focuses back on the nymph -she has seen her, Persephone can tell: she feels her look like a straight arrow in her stomach. She is being weighted and judged. She gives a careless smile, locking arms with her girls and stalking away.

_(Inside, her hate strucks like thunderbolt; she cannot show it. She cannot help it either, nor wants to)._

* * *

 

 

That night, she pulls him to her - again, she has him caught by surprise. The strength of her arms, the rage in her kiss. He lets her do as she pleases (he has been readying himself for yet another solitary night, so he welcomes, relishes the change of plans).

He is a King, but he chooses to let her rule him. The sex is fast, rough and leaves the red tracks of her nails on his back (he feels the need to scratch). It occurs to him the disrespect she shows her husband and King should send him in a rage. Instead, he kisses the back of her sweaty hand, tastes the salt. She is still shaking slightly, draped over the floor, spread open and spent. He sinks his teeth in the skin and she does not flinch, not even a little, not even at all. He does not tell her he has missed their nigthly intimacy, her touches.

He does not ask why she grants him forgiveness for her wounded pride -he knows it is not a scheme and that is enough.

 

* * *

 

 

She does not know herself and she is glad he does not ask. She bruises his shoulder, sucking and tugging at the flesh until it turns purple. Hades' body is lean, she can trace the bone under the skin. She brushes it with her lips. She lays there, uncomfortable and shaking at the top of him. _"Why me?"_ The question comes abruptly, coherent sounds against her ragged breath. She ponders a little. _"You came to me and asked." You asked me_ , she means. _Not my mother_.

 

* * *

 

 

Their days together are numbered - soon enough, she will rejoin her mother on the Earth above. Zeus sends word to join yet another banquet and this time Hades agrees. He is pleased at the excitement on her face, the flush on her cheeks (her first time as a Queen in a public event).

His sister is not there -he wishes he could marvel at the size of her hate, he feels a pang of shame for the pain he causes her (just a brief pang because Persephone is his and at the thought of letting go of her he feels like he is bleeding on the inside. Of course, he does not tell her that, she knows anyway).

Before the banquet is done, the guests dismissed, he has his taste of it: he does not quite like the attention on his youthful bride, the attention she calls to herself (Aphrodite praising her lovely skin, Athena the brightness of her eyes, Artemis wrapping her arms around her old companion).

Hera does not smile and he does not resent her for it (neither does Persephone, he can tell): she watches her husband closely, and Hades cannot help but doing the same. This is how she spots it, something wrong in Zeus' eyes (exactly the same shade's as his wife's), something unreadable that leave goosebumps on the back of his neck. Hera's face turn sours and Hades sees her dipping her nails into his forearm. Zeus flinches, the dangerous look gone as it was never there.

Persephone smiles Kore's smile, all white teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, she quietly cries herself to sleep, keeping her sorrow as silent as possible so not to wake Hades. She thinks she will be gone soon (she yearns for her mother, she honestly does, but), she hears Mynthe's sing-song laugh (she would much like to strangle it back down her throat), she recalls the lust in her father's look.

She wonders what he saw - her mother, perhaps? Or is it himself he desired? Not her, though, that much is clear enough to her. She hopes he's feeling guilty somewhere (she wants vengeance which surprises her.

She thought she had learnt indifference towards him). She hopes he is bedding Hera while recalling her, too (she hates herself for picturing it, even for a flash, but she can see herself just like when Hades lets him ride him, when the mood is right, only it is Zeus beneath her - she can see his hands cupping her breasts and playing with them, pushing his sex inside of herself, swaying her hips, breathily calling him _father, father..._ ).

There is a wetness between her thighs, a tingle. Disgusted, she dries her tears and bares her breasts, letting a nipple brush against Hades' lips. Later, she lets him fuck her (not make love to her: taking, not giving) and she screams her name while she comes.

She does not think of Zeus at all as the world blackens behind her closed eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

The time draws near. He sees her spying on Mynthe, sometimes. He hears the nymph boast she will have him back in her bed the minute Persephone is gone. He decides that testing himself is the right course of action. That night, he takes Persephone from behind, fisting her soft hair as he tries to recall Mynthe's body from the depth of his memory. He pushes and pants, buries himself into Persephone and all he can see is his wife.

 

* * *

 

 

_(She spies on Mynthe and hears her boast she will have him back the moment she is gone with her sing-song voice, caressing her hair, praising the clear blue of her eyes. She wants to yank at it until only a bloody, bald mess is left, scratch her eyes out leaving empty holes)._

 

* * *

 

 

The day draws near. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it.

_"Wait for me."_

_"So do you."_

 

* * *

 

Her queenly self-control snaps. A snarl curling her lips, she grasps a fistful of golden hair and yanks, yanks until she can see them in her hands, wrapped around her fingers bloodying them. (Her voice no longer sounds like a song while jagged in screams, her golden mane is gone, her eyes consumed with tears and wordless pleading).

 

* * *

 

 

She is gone, at last. Sitting alone in the Throne Room, Hades cannot quite graps the concept as of yet. His eyes slits, his mind escorts his wife up above, watches her thread on the sleeping field, pictures his sister wrapping her tight in her arms, pulling her close and burying her nose in the crook of her neck. He feels her detecting an unknown scent, sweet but cold, tingly. There are flowers in Persephone's elaborate hair-do, tiny and white, perfumed green foliage. Her spoils of war. Hades sees Demeter kissing Persephone's cheeks and calling her Kore. He wonders how long will it take her to see underneath.

 _(The thought makes him giddy)_.


End file.
